


That's Not the Way

by StarsandJellyfish



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon Blood Addiction, Detox, Episode: s05e14 My Bloody Valentine, Gen, Guilty Dean, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Room, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:26:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23736820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsandJellyfish/pseuds/StarsandJellyfish
Summary: After My Bloody Valentine, Sam still needs to detox. Dean is stressed and angry and worried, and he just can't be around Sam just then. Bobby is unable to get down the stairs, so Sam is alone. But what happens when something goes very, very wrong in Sam's detox?
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 80





	That's Not the Way

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. This is my second fic on this site, so I hope it's okay. I'm pretty sure some of the characterisation for the boys might be off, particularly Dean. He's just so hard to write! I figure he has an excuse, though, as he's in a very stressful, emotional situation. This fic does contain a death and someone struggling with it in a pretty unhealthy way, so if that's not your thing, don't read it. Anyway, I hope you enjoy. :)

That’s Not the Way

Dean shifted on Bobby’s davenport, hoping to get comfortable. It was a losing game, but he tried anyway. It wasn’t like there was anything else to do except get shitfaced and pull a pillow over his head, try to ignore his brother’s screams. Bobby had already rolled his way outside, sitting on the porch with a glass of whiskey to take the edge off. Dean had considered breaking out his old friend Jack, but then he wouldn’t be there if Sam needed him. Not that he’d really been there so far, but still...

After Famine, Dean had shut Sam away in the panic room again, though it wasn’t like his brother had been arguing. In fact, Sam had stormed his way there, claiming he could already feel himself coming down from the high, and Dean had followed him in. He’d cuffed Sam to the bed at his brother’s request, and then left him when Sam turned his head away and wouldn’t talk to Dean. He didn’t blame him. A lot had been taken from Sam by Famine.

Sam had been on the wagon, and he’d been trying so damn hard. Dean had been proud of him for that, even if he’d never say it to his brother’s face, even if he’d never even show it. He knew how strong Sam had to be for going through this not once, but twice. He himself had his own problems with alcohol, and he knew he’d never have the strength to quit, not unless his brother were there to hold his hand through the withdrawals, so yeah, he was proud of his little brother.

At the same time, Sam had let himself get affected by Famine, despite swearing that he would try his hardest not to be. Maybe Dean didn’t get it (he never had to deal with Famine’s powers, after all, what with the big, empty pit inside of him), but at the same time he couldn’t stop his anger. Sam had broken and took days out of their plan to stop the apocalypse, days they could have been saving lives, rather than sitting around at Bobby’s doing nothing, waiting for Sam to snap out of it. No matter what he tried to tell himself, the anger wouldn’t go away, so Dean had hauled his ass up the stairs out of the cellar and plonked himself down on the couch, becoming as immovable as a mountain with stubbornness issues. He knew he was pissing Bobby off.

Suddenly, the screaming cut out, and Dean perked up a little. It had been a few days, so the cut out screaming could only mean good things, he was sure. His little brother had finally stopped hallucinating, meaning he would be out of the panic room in no time at all. Dean would put him to sleep in a proper bed, and they’d be on their way in two days’ time, tops. They had work to do, and Sam could damn well cope.

Leaning back again, Dean tipped his head over the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. He was tired, not having slept properly in days. No matter how angry he was at Sam, it didn’t seem right that he should be getting rest when his little brother was screaming as if Alastair had got his hands on him. Dean shuddered. That wasn’t an image he wished to conjure again.

A faint squeaking brought him out of his thoughts, and he turned to find that Bobby had rolled himself back into the house.

“Sam stopped screaming?” he asked gruffly. Dean was grateful that Bobby was there to care for Sam, even if he couldn’t get down to the panic room, because Dean just didn’t have it in him right then. Sam had brought the addiction on himself, even if he hadn’t personally chosen to re-indulge this time. This was on him.

“Yeah,” he grunted noncommittally, reaching up to rub his eyes. “Still gonna be a few hours before we can bring him up, though.”

“Check on him,” Bobby demanded, before rolling himself away towards the kitchen. Dean grunted again, but made no move to leave his dent in the couch. Instead, he closed his eyes and tried to will himself to sleep.

It wasn’t long before Bobby rolled back. “I don’t see you checkin’ on Sam.”

“Sam’s a big boy,” he pointed out tiredly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. He couldn’t argue with Bobby right now, he didn’t have the will, but at the same time he couldn’t go down to see Sam, either. “He can look after himself. Besides, I’m tired.”

A snort left Bobby’s nose at that. Then he was rolling closer to Dean, eyes narrowed in annoyance.

“Boy,” he said, irritation thick in his voice. “You might be tired right now, but I can guarantee that Sam’s feeling ten times worse.”

“Doubt it,” Dean grouched, before regretting his words. Even he wasn’t stupid enough to think that his tiredness was greater than a man’s who had just been through serious withdrawal.

“You ‘doubt it’?” Bobby bit out. His hands clenched tighter around the wheels of his chair, and he was looking at Dean as if he’d never seen him before, and not in a good way. Dean resisted the urge to shrink back. “You ‘doubt’ that your brother’s having a harder time than you right now? You can be a right stuck-up, selfish idjit sometimes, you know?”

Dean didn’t think that was a question he was actually supposed to answer. He stayed quiet.

Locked in a stand-off with Bobby, Dean finally stood up. He headed out of the room, and Bobby nodded for good measure, as if he’d won the argument. Frustration and anger welling up inside of him, Dean made sure he was in full sight of Bobby before he stalked towards the porch, not the cellar. Let him make of that what he would.

“I’m too tired for this,” Dean declared, hand on the door. “I’m going to take a walk. If you’re so worried about Sam, you go check on him. But just remember, _he_ got himself into this mess, nobody else.”

He thought that would have been the last of it, but as he pounded down the steps of the porch he heard Bobby’s voice over his shoulder. The guy had wheeled himself to the door and was calling out to him.

“You know as well as I do that _this_ time was not his fault,” growled the older man, fingers white around the edge of the door. “He did damn well, from what Feathers told me, to stop himself from draining all those demons in that room with you, but he did it, and he saved your sorry hide too. What’s more, you and I both know it wasn’t all his fault in the first place. I don’t know what crawled up your ass, Winchester, but I do know this. If you were down there, suffering like that boy’s suffering? He’d have stayed with you, no matter what you’d done.”

With that, Bobby rolled himself backwards and closed the door between them, leaving Dean with a sour taste in his mouth.

It wasn’t like he didn’t know that Sam would have been in there with him, but Sam was always stronger than him when it came to things like that. Right now, he couldn’t be in there, and yeah, he was blaming Sam for something that technically wasn’t his fault, but the only other place he could see to put any blame was on him, and if he put it there right then, he’d suffocate under it. This was better. This way, he could hold himself up enough to stop the apocalypse, or at least die in the attempt, and he could drag Sam along with him.

Grinding his teeth in frustration, he stalked between the rows of cars until he was near the edge of the property. There, he picked up a stone on the ground and hurled it as fast as he could. He found it wasn’t enough to lessen his anger. Despite knowing it was a stupid move, despite knowing it would hurt, he punched his fist through a surviving window on one of the wrecks, letting out a pained grunt as he did so.

Breathing heavily, he sat on the hood of a truck, knuckles throbbing. Disinterestedly, he watched as the blood ran down his hand, bright and quick, and he wondered how Sam could ever have put that stuff in his mouth, let alone drink it down again and again and again. He let out another wordless growl.

Shaking his head to try to clear his anger away, Dean stared out through the fence of Singer’s Salvage Yard. He’d wanted to keep his head clear, but he soon learned that wasn’t going to happen. Every few minutes, his thoughts drifted back to Sam and what Bobby had said, and it wasn’t long before he found himself considering Bobby’s words. Well, he considered some of them. He wasn’t going to touch the idea that Sam might not have been entirely responsible for his addiction. If he hadn’t trusted that bitch Ruby, none of this would have happened.

But still, Bobby had pointed out that Sam had saved their lives, and he wasn’t wrong. Famine had even _offered_ other demons, blood ripe for the taking, and all Sam had done was save them, then come home and lock himself away, Dean trailing behind him like a silent and angry lost puppy. Sure, Sam might have caved, but Dean couldn’t stop himself from feeling a flare of pride for Sam’s accomplishment. He knew, from having watched Cas, that it was incredibly difficult to throw off Famine’s hold. The angel was probably still recovering from eating all that red meat, after all.

Wiping his good hand over his face, Dean let a breath out, shoulders slumped. Bobby was right about the other thing, too. Sam _would_ have been in there, even if Dean had turned on him. Sam _had_ stuck with him, even after all the times Dean had felt the need to get into physical altercations with Sam to get his point across, and when had that started? When had he thought it was okay to hit his brother because he was angry, at least now that they were both grown men? And, more to the point, when had he decided that it was okay for him, as the big brother, to leave his little brother, his Sammy, cuffed and alone in a room whilst in what was clearly unbearable agony, when all Sam had been calling out for was his big brother?

Heaving a sigh, Dean began to stand again. He was starting to hate himself, just a little. Yeah, he was angry, but did that give him the right to make his brother suffer? Resisting the urge to stick his fist through another window, Dean turned towards the house, steeling himself for an apology to Bobby and a bigger apology for his little brother.

It didn’t take long before he was up the steps to the house and back inside. Once there, he came face to face with Bobby, which wasn’t much of a surprise. Dean assumed that he’d come for his apology after seeing Dean out of the kitchen window or something.

He was wrong.

“He’s been calling for you,” Bobby spoke before Dean could even begin his apology. “When he realised you weren’t coming, he was calling for me, but I can’t get down there. Now, he ain’t calling for anybody.”

_Way to make a guy feel guilty, Bobby,_ Dean thought. 

Nevertheless, he nodded and turned towards the stairs to the cellar, knowing full well that he was going to do what Bobby asked now. No matter how angry he got at his little brother, there was no way he was leaving him alone when he was asking for him, no way in Hell.

Ignoring his pain and his exhaustion, Dean went down the steps.

Before a minute had passed, he was standing in the doorway to the panic room, looking across the room at what had to be a sleeping Sam. Seems like he’d fallen asleep, which would explain why he’d stopped calling for anybody to come and help him. Dean had never met anyone more stubborn than Sam, and he didn’t think that boy would have stopped shouting for them even if they’d died, if he truly wanted them there with him.

_He can be selfish that way,_ Dean thought, then tacked on, _but I wouldn’t stop shouting for Sammy to come get me out of Hell, so…_

Taking a deep breath, he stepped over the threshold and into the room.

“Rise and shine, little brother,” he tried, hoping that his voice sounded as sunshine-y as his words did. He didn’t think he got it right, but then it didn’t seem to matter, because Sam barely stirred. Sighing, Dean crossed over to the water pitcher. “Come on, little brother. You wanted me here.”

Again, Sam barely stirred, though he did make a groaning sound. There wasn’t much life in it, but then Dean didn’t expect there to be. Not after the last couple of days of Hell.

“If you’re good, I’ll take the cuffs off,” he cajoled, hoping to get some sort of rise out of Sam. “You can come upstairs, sleep in a real bed, have a shower. You stink, Sam. I can smell you all the way from here.”

He wasn’t lying, either. He could smell blood and vomit and sweat over by the pitcher of water, so he knew it was only going to get worse when he reached his brother’s still form. Nevertheless, he walked over there, scrunching his nose against the smell. Sam still didn’t move.

“Sam,” louder and firmer, he tried to rouse his brother again. “Wake up.”

Nothing happened except for Sam letting out a small wheeze. “Sam?”

He was getting worried now.

“Come on, little brother,” he set the water down by the head of the cot, then sat himself down on the edge of it, reaching out to shake Sam’s shoulder. “Open those eyes.”

Sammy barely moved, though he let out another little murmur again. “…De…”

Dean was really worried now. Had something gone wrong with the detox process?

“Come on, Sam. Please.”

His brother’s shaggy head lolled towards him. A sigh of relief escaped his lips, only for his heart to jump back up into his throat when Sam’s eyes opened but wouldn’t focus on him, sliding around the room without focusing on anything. A smile pulled on the taller man’s lips, but it was weak and forced, his breath wheezing out.

“De…” he said again, still weak, but as if he was sure about it this time. Then, to make Dean’s heart stop. “Are you real?”

“What do you mean, Sammy?” he asked, but paused when he heard Sam’s breath suck in. He had no idea what that was about. “Of course I’m real.”

Fingers reaching out and pressing on Sam’s throat, he found his pulse. It was weak and thready, but it didn’t appear to be getting any worse. At least, not as far as Dean could tell. That didn’t make it any less worrying.

“No, y’re no…” Sam whispered, arms moving as if he would reach up to bat at his brother if he weren’t cuffed. With a start, Dean set about removing them. “You call’d me _Sammy_.”

As if that was supposed to make sense.

Narrowing his eyes, Dean unlocked his brother and let the chains fall to the floor before reaching out to rub Sam’s wrists when it became clear that the man wouldn’t do it for himself.

“Course I called you Sammy,” Dean’s voice sounded strained and tense to his own ears. Regardless, he wasn’t going to stop talking to Sam, wasn’t going to stop trying to get reactions out of him. This was his brother, and he was fading away on a rusty cot in a room that smelt rank at best, with none of the comforts his brother deserved whilst in such a state. God, of course Dean wasn’t going to stop talking to Sam. He’d pull him back from this, whatever it took, and his voice would be the first step. “You’re my little brother.”

“Not any… more…” he heaved out, leaving Dean to furrow his brows. What in Hell did the kid mean? “Think I’m… monster.”

Dread shot through Dean’s veins like ice. That wasn’t what he thought about Sam, not at all. Yeah, his brother had freaky powers sometimes, and he was majorly disappointed in the kid, but he didn’t think he was a monster. Where had Sam got that idea from? Unless… had the way Dean had been acting given it to him. Kicking himself, he reached forward and hauled his brother up, hands on his neck to check his pulse. It seemed worse than before.

“I don’t think that, Sammy,” Dean promised, pressing his words into Sam’s matted hair. “I don’t think that.”

“Yes, you… do…” the kid wheezed, moving his arm as if to push Dean away. He was so weak, however, that all he succeeded in doing was stroking his hand down Dean’s chest. Dean didn’t mind. Movement meant there was life in Sam yet. “You… said so…”

Well, that just wasn’t on. Sam had got the impression from something that he’d said, at some point, that Dean thought of him as a monster? That wasn’t what Dean had attempted to get across to him at all, ever, but it didn’t seem as if his brother had worked that out.

Before Dean could speak again, Sam broke in. “Doesn’t… matt’r… n’more.”

“What do you mean, Sammy?” Desperation laced his tone, now, and Dean squeezed his eyes shut against his brother’s head. His hand hadn’t moved from the pulse he could feel getting weaker and weaker, and he knew he was about to call for Cas. Sam was dying in his arms, and he couldn’t bear it. He’d sold his soul for Sam once. The angels had better believe he’d do it again, no matter how damn much they wanted him to fight in their stupid apocalypse. “Come on, stay with me.”

“’M sorry, De…” he huffed out, and Dean pushed him back a little ways, running his fingers through Sam’s long hair. He tried to meet his little brother’s eyes, but they were unfocused still, sliding this way and that as if he couldn’t see anything at all. “I love you.”

It was the one clear thing he said, and Dean felt his heart break.

“Don’t speak like that, Sammy,” he begged, clutching his brother to his chest. He could still feel the rapid, wheezy gasps Sam was drawing in against him, and he squeezed his nose down onto his brother’s head, breathing him in, not caring that his brother smelt like sick, blood and sweat. Right now, he didn’t care about anything except getting Sammy back on his feet. “You’re gonna be just fine. I’m gonna take care of you, alright? We’ll… We’ll get Cas to come fix you, and then we’ll take you upstairs and you can relax as long as you want, okay? Just don’t leave me, Sammy.”

“Not… leaving… you,” promised his little brother, fingers curling into the bottom of Dean’s shirt. “Don’t… Don’t call… Cas.”

“Not happening, Sammy,” Dean promised, though he wasn’t agreeing with his brother. No, he was telling his brother that he _was_ calling Cas, despite Sam’s protests. He didn’t care how sick the angel was feeling from Jimmy’s burger fetish. That feathered dick would get his ass there now whether he wanted to or not. Dean’s little brother was on the line. “Cas!” he called, “Cas, get your ass here now! I need you! Please, it’s Sam—”

He shut up when he felt Sam’s weak grip around his wrist. Cas had heard him, he’d come or he wouldn’t, and Dean could shout until he was blue in the face, it would make no difference now. Holding his breath, he waited. The angel didn’t show.

Turning his attention back to his little brother, he waited until Sam spoke. “No… Deals…”

“What?” Dean asked, shocked beyond anything. How could Sam ask that of him? Hell had been… Well, it had been Hell, but he’d go back there in a heartbeat if it meant saving Sam. “Sammy, I’m not gonna—”

“I… know…” Sam promised, nodding his head weakly as if a question he had been asking himself had been answered, and he didn’t like it. Dean couldn’t think what it was. “I… know… you… wouldn’t. Just… had to be... sure.”

Dean understood, then. Sam thought Dean wouldn’t make a deal for him, not that Dean couldn’t be stopped from making a deal for him.

“Damn it, Sam,” he growled, feeling his brother’s minute flinch and hearing the rattle of his exhale. “I’m not letting you die and _not_ making a deal. No way, no how.”

“Have to…” Sam decided, eyes finally focusing on Dean. It looked like it was taking all his strength just to do that. Dean felt himself welling up. “Apoc’lypse, Dean.”

“I don’t care,” he shook his head, feeling the tears finally start falling. This morning, he’d been pissed off but relatively okay, all things considered, but now here he was, sitting in the panic room, holding his dying brother and knowing with absolute certainty that this was on him. “They can have their stupid damn apocalypse. I’m not fighting it without you.” Sam opened his mouth to speak, but Dean cut him off. “No, Sam. I can’t. I won’t.”

Sam shook his head again, his breath coming in with a wheeze and out with a rattle, each breath quicker than the one before it. He didn’t have much time left. Dean’s fingers tightened, and he squished his brother closer to his chest. This was his fault. His own _damn_ fault.

“…S’not… over,” Sam promised with the tiniest upturning of his lips that Dean interpreted as a smile, before he let out one last rattling exhale and went even limper in Dean’s arms. Dean froze. Then, horror creeping through his veins, he started shaking his brother.

“Sam?” He asked desperately, hoping that he’d somehow got it wrong, that Sam was sleeping. “Sammy, please. Don’t leave me. You can’t. Sammy, you _can’t_!”

When begging didn’t work, Dean got angry. He let Sam flop backwards on the bed, not caring about how it hurt his brother, and started shaking his shoulders again.

“Open your damn eyes, Sam,” he growled out through clenched teeth. “You see if I don’t go and make another deal. I will, Sam. I will, unless you open those stupid eyes and stop me. Fucking _stop_ me.”

Still Sam didn’t move. For a few more minutes, Dean sat there bargaining, pleading and yelling at his brother, but nothing worked. Sam stayed where he was, still and unresponsive, sprawled on the cot surrounded by the smell of his own vomit, blood and sweat. Dean thought he was going to be sick. How could he have let his brother die like this, thinking his brother hated him, thinking he was a monster? More tears welled up, and Dean let them fall.

Eventually, Dean stopped pacing the room and shouting at his brother’s body. Instead he came back over to the cot, slumped down next to it, and clasped his brother’s hand. Holding it between both of his, he bowed his head over it and pressed a kiss to the cooling skin before whispering a promise. “I’ll get you back, Sammy. I swear it. I’ll get you back.”

Intellectually, Dean knew that he had to go upstairs and tell Bobby about it. He knew that they would have to do something with Sam – they couldn’t leave him in Bobby’s cellar – he knew he was going to have to find a crossroads demon and bring his brother back, or an angel powerful enough that could do it, but not so powerful that Dean couldn’t threaten. Intellectually, Dean knew all this, and yet all he could bring himself to do was lie down on the ground beside his brother on the cot, and clutch his brother’s ever cooling hand.

………………………………………………

Bobby sighed and rolled his way into his kitchen, looking for his phone. It had been a few hours since he had sent Dean down to go and check on his brother, and though he had heard Dean’s shouting earlier (but none of Sam’s responses) there had been silence for the last hour and a half. He couldn’t get down the stairs, and seeing as shouting down from the top of the cellar staircase hadn’t roused Dean or Sam, he was going to have to find his phone and rouse them that way. Soon, they’d be upstairs and fixed up, and everything would be better. Still, Bobby couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly, awfully wrong.

……………………………………………

The ring of a phone finally roused Dean from his despair, and he jerked upright before he knew he was doing it, tugging Sam further off the cot. Swallowing down bile and regret, he helped resituate his brother back on the mattress before reaching into his pocket and digging out his phone.

Snapping it open, he ground out, “What?”

“Dean?” Bobby asked, voice wary. God, Dean had forgotten about Bobby. How long had he been lying there next to Sam, not caring about existing anymore without his brother? What was he going to say? “What’s wrong?”

“It’s our fault,” was all Dean could get out before emotion welled up in his throat and choked his words off. He swallowed. “It’s our fault, Bobby.”

“What is?” the older man sounded confused. Then, he let out a deep sigh. “Have you and Sam been talking, Dean?”

“No,” he shook his head, despite knowing that Bobby couldn’t see him. “We probably won’t ever again.”

Silence followed that, until Bobby quietly and warily asked again, “What’s wrong, Dean?”

“Sam,” was all he could say for a few moments. It took a few deep breaths, but he finally got out. “We killed him, Bobby. We killed him.”

No words greeted him, not for a long moment. Then, “That’s not funny, boy.”

“I know,” Dean growled. “I _know_ it’s not funny, Bobby. But hey, we did it anyway.”

Without waiting for Bobby’s response, Dean snapped the phone shut and threw it across the room.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, steeling himself. After a moment of that, he turned to Sam and brushed the hair back on his forehead gently, before leaning forward and pressing a kiss there. Sam would have given him so much shit for that, if he’d done it in one of Sam’s waking moments, but then Sam wasn’t asleep, was he? He was dead, and Dean knew that he probably wouldn’t ever get his brother back again. There was no one left to make fun of him for it, and no matter how many deals Dean tried to cut or threats he gave out, he wasn’t delusional enough to believe that anyone would give him what he wanted. Not this time.

“I’m gonna take you upstairs, okay Sammy?” He asked his brother’s body. He waited a few moments, as if Sam would give him a response. When none came, he slipped his arm under Sam’s knees and another under his back and hefted him up. He was lighter than Dean expected, like he hadn’t been eating properly. Thinking about it, Dean realised that was probably the case.

“Sorry, Sammy,” he muttered again, heading for the door. “I’m so sorry, Sammy. This is on me.”

With those last uttered words, Dean trudged up the stairs, his little brother cradled in his arms.

………………………………………….

Bobby tried to avoid the downstairs guest bedroom now. There were plenty of rooms for him and Dean to sit in, none of which contained Sam’s body. Not that Dean could be found anywhere else. Ever since Sam had passed, on their watch no less, Dean had holed up in that room with Sam.

At first, Dean had been determined to sell his soul for Sam again, but Bobby had managed to stop him. It took a while, but he managed to convince Dean that Sam only just held on the first time. He probably wouldn’t survive a second time. He’d be right behind his brother, on his way to Hell, and Dean’s sacrifice would have been wasted. What’s more, it didn’t take a genius to work out that there wasn’t a demon out there that would trade a Winchester soul for a Winchester life anymore. No way, no how.

With despair coursing through him, Dean had taken to sitting by Sam’s side hour after hour. Bobby could hear him even now, talking to Sam about something or other, some story from when they were children. It sounded like the story of a hunt from what little Bobby could hear, but he wasn’t certain he wanted to know. Whatever Sam and Dean were sharing – well, Dean with Sam’s body – it was private, not for his ears.

The only interactions Dean and Bobby shared anymore were when Bobby rolled into Sam’s room and set food and whiskey down next to him. Often, he returned to pick up the tray and the food would be untouched, like Dean didn’t think he needed the sustenance anymore. Bobby wanted to shake him, yell at him until he went on like normal. Already Bobby had tried to persuade the older boy that his brother needed a funeral, a _hunter’s_ funeral, but Dean wouldn’t consider it.

“Sammy hated hunting,” he would say, and then turn to look at his brother’s grey face. The room was long past the point of beginning to smell, but Bobby wouldn’t argue. He couldn’t bring himself to. He had failed Sam just as much as Dean had, if not more. Experience had told him that you didn’t let people detox cold-turkey from such a potent drug as Sam had had in his system, but he’d ignored that voice. Sam had been lucky to survive his first round of detox. It was no wonder he didn’t survive his second. Dean would continue then, squeezing his brother’s fingers tight enough that Bobby thought they’d turn white, until he remembered that they’d never do that again, and the loss of Sam hit him all over again. “We should bury him, like he’d want. Sammy’s not stupid enough to go vengeful.”

Bobby would always snort at that. Trust Dean to get his faith back in his brother _after_ he was gone.

He wondered if this was what Sam had been like with Dean’s body, blaming himself and staying with it until he couldn’t anymore, but he didn’t know. Now, he’d never know, because there was no Sam to ask. Sometimes, he felt sick with the loss. Sam was like a son to him, and he’d lost him over his own stupid ignorance and arrogance. Gone were the days where he would pretend he was better than Sam because he hadn’t started the apocalypse. No matter how angry he was at the taller man, he should never have ignored safety in favour of teaching the boy a lesson. Now, it was too late to apologise, too late to seek forgiveness from his boy, and Sam was _his_ boy, even if he’d never wanted kids of his own. Sam and Dean were both his from the moment John brought them through his door, and now they both lay dead in his guest room, one way or another.

Cursing himself for a coward, he rolled towards the door. Dean needed to eat; it would do no good to waste away. There was an apocalypse to stop, and more to the point, Sam wouldn’t want that for Dean. Bobby didn’t want that for Dean. He knocked on the door, then rolled right in.

The older brother lay on his side, face tucked into Sam’s shoulder regardless of the stench emanating from the body. Biting back a sigh, Bobby steeled himself to try again.

“Dean…” he knew it was pointless. If there was one thing on this Earth Bobby couldn’t do, it was get between those brothers. “You know we’ve got to bury him.”

“No.”

He sighed again. Tray balanced on his lap, he rolled forward to reach the desk. Once there, he placed the food and whiskey on the surface with a thunk, before rolling over to join Dean at Sam’s side.

“Come on, boy,” he cajoled, hoping he would get through to the older hunter. “He’s gone. This is unsanitary. Worse, it’s unhealthy.”

“ _Don’t_ talk about my brother like that,” Dean growled, fingers tightening in Sam’s shirt. Dean had cleaned him up after bringing him up the stairs, washing him in the bathtub and putting Sam in a stupid flowery shirt that he’d worn a lot. Bobby had tried to help, but Dean hadn’t let him near him, muttering about it being his fault, so he was going to fix it. He’d known not to argue.

Done with that, Dean had straightened Sam into a position of repose on the bed. Back that first day, he’d looked tired but sleeping, as if the life had been drained out of him, but not quite to the point of dead. Now, looking at him, nobody could deny he was dead. It broke Bobby’s heart to see him that way, and he wasn’t afraid to admit it.

Together, he and Dean sat in silence for a few minutes.

“You know,” Dean began, sounding like he was hoping to be allowed to hope, if that even made sense. Bobby wasn’t sure, but the Winchesters had always been laws unto themselves. “Back when—when… Well, back when, he said ‘it’s not over’. Do you think… Do you think he’s coming back?”

“Dean…” Bobby didn’t know what to say to that. There was no hope for Sam at this point, but he didn’t know how to get that across without ruining Dean. Sighing, he did the only thing he could think of: he ignored the question. “Dean, we need to bury him.”

The younger man tensed up.

“I know he doesn’t – didn’t – want a hunter’s funeral, but I _know_ he wouldn’t want to be left here, either.” The older Winchester grit his teeth, but he didn’t argue. “This is undignified for him, Dean. He wouldn’t want you to watch him rot away. You know that as well as I do.”

“It’s our fault, Bobby,” stated the living Winchester, “It’s our fault. He’d want us to suffer.”

“If you really believe that, Dean Winchester, you’re a bigger idjit than I thought.” A growl tore its way out of Bobby’s throat, but he couldn’t help it. Sometimes, Dean was the stupidest man he’d ever met. At least before he’d had his brother to balance him out. Sam had always been a smart one. He’d impressed Bobby with his brains right off the bat. “Sam was the most forgiving person I knew, and he loved you to Hell and back. If he really wanted you to suffer, he wouldn’t be the Sam I knew.”

Silence followed his statement for a few beats, but then Dean cautioned, “I know, Bobby. I just…”

“I know,” Bobby promised, and he did know. Grief made people into the worst versions of themselves.

Ignoring it, he made an aborted attempt to reach out to touch Sam’s hand, but thought better of it at the last moment. He thought if he felt Sam’s cold skin, felt the stiffness of his body and the lack of pulse, lack of life, he wouldn’t be able to bear it. He knew Sam was dead, of course he did, but he didn’t need the evidence in his hands like that. Instead, he placed them back on his wheels and rolled backwards a little bit.

“Well find him a nice spot tomorrow,” he decided firmly, knowing that Dean wouldn’t argue with his no nonsense tone. Not in this state, at least. “We’ll bury him then.”

“In the sun,” Dean decided, eyes meeting Bobby’s. He could see from the shine in them that this was important to the man. Very important. “Sammy doesn’t need to be stuck in the shadows. He deserves to be in the light.”

Bobby nodded at that. There was no denying there was a dark side to Sam Winchester, not at all, but Bobby also knew that that was true of any hunter. He couldn’t sit there and pretend that he hadn’t killed his own wife due to a lack of research, couldn’t pretend that John’s dark side hadn’t made him chase the man off his property with a shotgun and he couldn’t pretend that Dean hadn’t become a torturer of souls in Hell after Dean had drunkenly confessed it to him one night. He couldn’t even pretend that Dean hadn’t brought all those lessons back topside with him. So, yes, Bobby decided, Sam would be buried in the light, because Sam was also one of the best people Bobby knew despite the mistakes he’d made, and he deserved to spend the rest of time in the sun. With that decided, he turned to leave.

“Come on, Dean,” he murmured softly, catching Dean’s attention once more. “You need to eat and sleep.”

“I think I’ll stay here,” Dean declined, eyes fixed back on his brother’s greying face. “Say goodbye, you know? I’ll be out later.”

Bobby knew it was a lie, but he didn’t press. Who was he to deny Dean one last night with his brother? They’d be split up forever after that, and he didn’t have it in him to deny them the chance to have this one last goodbye.

“Okay,” he agreed, rolling his way out of the door. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

With that, he closed the door, leaving Dean and Sam to their reminiscing, Dean’s voice once again breaking the silence with stories shared just between the two of them. Bobby knew he had no right to intrude.

……………………………………..

Dean clutched tighter than he ever had before to his brother, knowing that tomorrow he would be put in the ground and he wasn’t ever coming back. There was no deal he could make to undo it, no threat he could make that would bring his brother back. Sam was dead, and gone, and, yeah, he had started to smell. Actually, that boat had sailed a long time ago, but Dean hadn’t been able to bring himself to put his brother under tonnes of rock and dirt just yet.

At this point, Dean had talked himself hoarse. The dinner Bobby had brought him remained untouched on the side, but Dean couldn’t bring himself to eat. Instead, he shifted himself on the bed, before brushing the hair back from his little brother’s face once more. Sam had always hated it when he did that, but there was no one to sit up and complain about it now. Biting his lip to distract himself, Dean closed his eyes. It was about time he got some sleep.

…………………………………….

Later that night, Dean found himself sweating, though he couldn’t have told anyone why. He wasn’t under a duvet. Instead, he’d tucked himself into Sam’s side, having turned around to face away from the guy in the night. Now he was facing the wall, and an odd soft whimpering was coming from behind him.

He shrugged and closed his eyes again. Whatever it was, it wasn’t dangerous. In fact, it sounded like Sammy in the throes of a nightmare…

Just like that, Dean bolted upright. Twisting around to face his brother, eyes wide and heart pounding, he placed a hand on the taller guy’s chest. Nothing happened, though Dean had to admit that the body felt warm under his palm, which was odd for winter in South Dakota. Furrowing his brow, he waited. If some demon son of a bitch had seen his brother’s body ripe for the taking and moved right on in, he was going to kill them stone dead. They were not going to mess with him, not while they were wearing Sam.

As if the thing could hear his thoughts, his brother’s body whimpered again. Jolting backwards, Dean fell off the bed, knocking the lamp over as he did. It smashed behind him, bringing sharp pain to his hands as he scrambled backwards. That didn’t much matter to him, though. Now, his hands would match. Other than removing the glass, he’d left the last injury untreated. Shaking his head, he moved backwards again. It wasn’t the time to think about old injuries.

On the bed, the body groaned. Dean froze. Then, the shaggy head of his brother popped itself over the edge, colour back in the cheeks and a sparkle back in the eyes.

It wasn’t fair! Why couldn’t the bastards just leave him and his brother in peace? This wouldn’t have happened if he’d just buried Sammy sooner, just been ready to let him go sooner. Cursing himself for failing Sammy again, Dean hauled himself to his feet.

“No,” the demon decided, panic on its face. _Good_ , Dean thought. _You should be scared of me_. “I won’t say yes.”

That stopped him. What was that supposed to mean? Had he summoned the demon in his sleep? That didn’t make any sort of sense.

“Won’t say yes to what?” he asked, squinting at the demon. Then, more gruffly, “Get out of my brother.”

The demon simply shook his head and backed away, defiance ingrained into every line of his face. Dean hated that the last time he’d see his brother’s face animated and looking directly at him would be a time when some hell bitch decided to wear him as a prom dress.

“You can try this all you like,” the demon growled again, watching Dean with wary eyes. “I’m not saying yes. There’s _nothing_ you can do to make me say yes.”

“Say yes to what?” Dean demanded. He’d made his way backwards through the room slowly, inching towards the desk, to where holy water was kept in the drawer. If he could just get to that, he could sprinkle the demon and exorcise it. There was no way he was stabbing his brother’s body, no damn way. An exorcism would have to do. What he wouldn’t give to have his brother’s freaky mind powers just about now. Then he cursed himself again for calling his brother a freak. Sam didn’t deserve that, and certainly not now. Not after he was gone, without even realising that Dean still loved him.

“What do you mean ‘say yes to what’?” Hazel eyes squinted at him now, brow furrowed in confusion. “You’re not wearing me to the prom.”

Something clicked in Dean’s mind. The demon had taken a step back, let Sam’s consciousness out to play. That was sick, even for a demon. Now, Dean had to kill his own brother, just to keep him safe. He gritted his teeth and opened the drawer behind him inch by painfully slow inch.

Taking the chance the demon had given him to speak to Sam one last time, Dean said, “I love you, Sammy.”

Sam’s brows furrowed further. “Now I _know_ you aren’t real.”

Dean’s hands slipped into the draw and curled around the bottle within. “What do you mean, Sammy?”

“I wasn’t sure before, you know?” he confessed, a slight grin curling up the edges of his lips. It wasn’t a happy one. “But Dean never tells me he loves me. I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m a monster.”

Now that just wasn’t on. Sure, Dean thought that Sam had made some mistakes lately, but thinking him a monster? When had he _ever_ said that? Well… There was that one time, but Dean didn’t think that one could be held against him. That was over a year ago, and Sam had been being stupid, and—

Shaking his head, he cleared his thoughts and whipped the water out. Unscrewing the cap was the work of seconds, and then he was throwing the water straight into Sam’s face, wincing when he knew it would burn. And then… it didn’t. He narrowed his eyes in confusion. Meanwhile, Sam spat water out of his face with great indignancy.

“What the Hell, Dean?” he asked. Dean didn’t think he’d ever seen Sam looking so confused. Then, hesitantly, “I’m awake?”

“You’re _you_?!” Dean asked, even more confused. Then, he scrambled over to the bed and grabbed Sam’s arm while he reached up with the other one to wipe water out of his eyes. It wasn’t long before Dean had sliced his arm with a silver blade. He wasn’t a revenant, either. Green eyes met hazel, both confused beyond all Hell. “You’re not… not a demon or revenant or shifter?”

“What? No!” Sam yanked his arm back and pressed his hand over it, finally shifting himself backwards on the bed to curl up against the headboard. “Why would you think that?”

“Sammy…” hesitated Dean, before sighing and rubbing his hands down his face. “Sammy, you _died_.”

“It’s Sam,” the taller man huffed. Drawing both hands to his chest, he inspected his own twisting fingers and carefully avoided Dean’s gaze. “It didn’t _feel_ like I was dead. Lucifer was trying to make me say yes.”

“Didn’t feel like you were—?” Dean repeated, eyes wide and fixed on his little brother’s face. “Dude, it’s been days. You…” he leaned closer now, lowering his eyes to the floor as if he were giving a shameful confession which, he supposed, he was. “You’d started to stink, Sam.”

“ _Days?!”_ horror crept into his brother’s tone, and then Sam’s hand was on his shoulder. Dean tried hard not to lean into the touch, but he couldn’t help it. It had been so long since his brother had touched him, even longer since they’d shared a casual touch. It was kind of a precious moment. “Dude, why didn’t you bury me yet? You weren’t going to make a deal, were you?”

“No,” Dean shook his head quickly, probably too quickly if Sam’s scowl and raised eyebrow was anything to go by. “No,” he said again, slower and more measured. “Bobby persuaded me not to. Said you wouldn’t want me to, and… I couldn’t… I couldn’t disrespect your memory like that, Sammy. Not again.”

“Good,” Sam nodded firmly, and Dean felt a small relief that Sam didn’t blame him for that, at least. “So then, what am I still doing up here?”

“Dude, did you want to have to dig yourself out of your own grave? Let me tell you, it ain’t easy work.”

Sam’s head tilted into bitchface ‘I’m exasperated with Dean because he’s changed the subject’ number nine. This one came with the flared nostrils and clenched jaw, too, just so that Dean knew he’d really annoyed his little brother. The older man couldn’t keep himself from chuckling just a little. God, he’d thought he’d never see that expression on his little brother’s face ever again.

“ _Dean_ ,” was all he ground out.

“Alright,” with raised hands, Dean sat back. Dropping them, he began plucking at the coverlet. With eyes fixed across the room, he continued. “It was my fault you were dead.”

“What?” Sam asked, leaning forwards as if to comfort Dean. His hand stretched out and hovered over Dean’s shoulder, but the older man shifted away when he saw what Sam was trying to do.

“Sammy, it was my fault,” he confessed, eyes pleading with his little brother to understand. “I knew that you going cold turkey like that could kill you, I did, but I was just so _angry_ …” a defeated sigh escaped him. “It was my fault.”

“Maybe,” Sam allowed, and Dean was grateful that his brother didn’t try and persuade him otherwise. That was something he’d never be able to do, ever. “Maybe, Dean, but you have to know I forgive you.”

Just like that, Dean felt himself break. Sammy forgave him. Dean had got his little brother killed, and his little brother _forgave_ him. He reached up and rubbed under his eye with the ball of his hand, trying to pretend like nothing was wrong, but little brother instincts are good, and Sam had the best little brother instincts in the world. It wasn’t long before Sam’s long arms were wrapping around Dean, tugging him into his brother’s warmth, and God had Dean thought that he’d never feel that warmth again.

He stayed there for a little while, long enough that by the time he sat up the tears were gone and all that was left to suggest that Dean had been crying were his bloodshot eyes.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed against his brother’s chest. “Let me up.”

At Sam’s questioning look, he clarified. “We’ve got to go tell Bobby. He still thinks we’re burying you in the morning.”

“Then he can find out that that’s no longer on the agenda in the morning,” Sam huffed. With practised ease, he tangled his fingers in Dean’s shirt sleeve and tugged, stopping Dean from going anywhere. He began to lay back on the bed, shifting the covers out from underneath him, all without letting go of Dean. “I’m beat, Dean. I’ve been with Lucifer for days. Can we just…?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, still standing by the side of Sam’s bed. “Yeah, we can tell him in the morning. I’ll just… go… raid the kitchen, then.”

“Dean, don’t be ridiculous,” Sam argued, tugging Dean towards him by the sleeve. “You’re staying here. You’ve had a Hell of a week. Trust me, I know. If you think I’m letting you out of my sight, when I only just got you back, you’ve got another think coming. Now get in here.”

Relief coursed through Dean’s veins. With Sam making it mostly about himself, Dean felt free to climb into bed with him and lie down.

He was just getting comfortable when Sam spoke again. “Dude, you stink.”

“Yeah, well,” he chuckled, shifting a little. “Not washing for days will do that to a guy. You didn’t smell too hot yourself there for a while, Sammy.”

Even in the dark, Dean could see his little brother’s wrinkled nose.

“Sam,” his little brother pointed out. Turning his head, he said, “and I can smell that. These sheets smell like… pretty rank.”

Sam had caught his poor word choice and changed it at the last second for Dean’s comfort. He huffed out a laugh. “Dude, go to sleep.”

Letting out a put-upon sigh, Sam gave up and closed his eyes. He mustn’t have been lying about his exhaustion, because it wasn’t long before his eyes slid shut and his breathing evened out.

Staying awake, just in case Sam woke up again after spending a week with freakin’ Lucifer of all people, Dean considered things. He and his brother had been distant, recently, he knew, but then he’d experienced his brother’s death and realised that, no matter what, Sammy was his little brother and he’d sell his soul over and over for the kid. Every action he’d taken to drive them further apart, he regretted, and he hoped Sam knew it, too. Vowing silently to himself, Dean promised that he would do better as a big brother next time, and swore that if a situation like this ever occurred again, he’d ween his brother slowly off the drug, not just stop letting him have it. That, he realised now, was no way to fix things. That led to misery and pain for all those involved.

Shaking his head, he tried to clear his minds of those thoughts. They wouldn’t help now, not with an apocalypse to stop. Neither, he knew, would they help him sleep. Instead, he fixed his eyes on Sammy’s face and let his mind drift, waiting for his brother to wake up if he would. Sam, for his part, seemed sound asleep and peaceful, though Dean didn’t think he himself would feel that way for a while.

He shifted closer to Sam, wondering how he’d got such a forgiving brother. Counting it for the blessing it was, he sent a little smile his brother’s way.

When he knew his brother was finally sleeping and sleeping well, Dean let out the breath he’d been holding and placed his hand on his brother’s chest. The way his arm went up and down gently helped soothe him, and though he had no plans to fall asleep any time soon, just in case this with Sam had all been a dream, it wasn’t that long before he himself drifted off, to the sounds of his brother’s quiet breaths.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because Dean said about Sam during his last detox "at least he'll die human". I always wondered if that would stand up if Sam actually died during detox, so I thought to myself 'you've got to write it'. And, true to what I wondered, Dean decided that he didn't like the idea of Sammy 'dying human'. I hope you enjoyed it. :)


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